To the Bone
by PoppyB
Summary: A little accident, a little angst.


The phone was ringing.

Elliot became aware of this, against his will. He was dragged from slumber and kicked his way through black water to break the surface of sleep. He was not aware of the number of rings before he managed to locate the receiver and turn it on. It was dark and that second beer he consumed while watching the late news turned out to be one too many.

"Stabler."

"Hey, Elliot. It's me." The voice was quietly on edge. Apologetic, strained and very slightly slurred. Elliot immediately tensed, sat up, tangled in bedsheets, more awake than he wanted to be.

"Olivia? What's up? You all right?" He peered into the darkness at the bedside clock. It read 1:34.

"Yeah, I'm fine." She paused. Elliot could hear faint noises behind her breathing – muffled voices, clangs, a phone ringing. i Where the hell is she/i "I was just wondering…I know it's late. Could you…could you come pick me up?"

"Sure. Course." Elliot swung his legs over the side of the bed, his heart doing a frantic little dance against his ribcage. He peered over his shoulder at the still sleeping form of his wife, rolled into her familiar blanket cocoon. "Where are you?"

Another pause, more noises, quiet breath exhalation.

"The hospital."

Of course it was Olivia. Kathy Stabler heard the phone immediately – who with kids was a very heavy sleeper? – and she knew, she knew with a wife's, with a _woman's_ intuition, who was calling at this ungodly hour.

Olivia Benson.

Of course.

She lay wrapped tightly in her blankets, on her side of the bed, waiting for Elliot to rouse and locate the phone. He was usually a restless sleeper, forever waiting for that inevitable call to work, but lately he was sleeping like a rock, exhausted, dead to the world. Of course, he was also drinking more than usual, a beer or two every night before bed, and that helped knock him out for a few hours at least. Kathy remembered when sex used to be their habitual sleeping pill. It had been weeks, maybe months, since they'd made love last. Both worn out, stressed out.

Olivia-ed out.

She listened to him answer the phone, his voice gruff, barely awake. Then his tone altered, became one of intense concern, worry.

Tenderness.

Of course it was Olivia. No one else brought that particular tone out in Elliot's voice anymore. No one. Not her. Not the kids. She sighed and shifted slightly to stretch her legs. If Elliot noticed he didn't let on. He was still talking to i her /i . God, what was it now? What could be so fucking important that she had to call her _partner_ in the middle of the night?

Her _married_ partner. Her married partner. The once with four kids. And a house. And a mortgage. Responsibilities. Baggage.

"Sure. Course, he said. "Where are you?"

Ahhhhhh. She needs something. She needs a ride. From Elliot. Because she has no one else. No friends, no family, no one to help her the way Elliot Stabler can. This beautiful, warm, kind-hearted woman is all alone in the big, wide, scary world.

_Bullshit_.

Kathy sighed again, a bit louder, as Elliot hung up and stumbled around the room grabbing pants, a shirt, shoving his feet into sneakers. She heard the zipper of his jeans, the jingle of the car keys.

_Do I let him know I'm awake_, she thought. _Would he even care?_

As he headed for the door she rolled over, leaned up on her elbows.

"Where you going?" she said quietly.

"Olivia called. She's at the hospital and needs a ride home."

"She all right?" Kathy heard herself asking, wondering if she really cared, or just wanted Elliot to think she did.

"Not sure. I'll be back soon." He paused, wavering, then moved to her side, kissed her forehead lightly, barely a glance with his lips. Then he was gone, tapping lightly down the stairs. She lay back, listened to the front door close and lock, the car door shut, engine turn over, tires crunch on stones. He was gone. She sighed, again.

Of course.

It was always Olivia.

* * *

Elliot could barely form coherent thought as he drove. She hadn't told him much on the phone, though he'd been desperate for more information.

"I'm all right," she'd said again, though her voice betrayed her; that husky, lovely voice sounded small and hurt. Not all right. "I just…can you come?"

She wanted him to come get her. She needed him. He could not refuse. Now he was just wanted to see her. Lay eyes on her. He made a mental checklist to help maintain his sanity, steady his breathing as he drove to her.

Not dead. _Check_.

Not critically injured. _Check_.

Wounded? _Definitely_.

Broken bones? _Possibly_.

Attacked? Beaten?

_Raped_.

He could go no further. He would deal with the reality of whatever had happened after he saw her. After he laid eyes on her for himself. With Herculean effort he turned his thoughts off, gripped the steering wheel with sweaty hands that didn't feel attached to the ends of his arms, and drove.

All he could do for now is drive.

* * *

Why do hospitals have such fucking _bright_ lights? Elliot moved through the harshly lit entrance, fighting the urge to shield his eyes. The Emergency waiting area was surprisingly full of an array of patients, young and old, all bearing some sort of bloody injury. A little girl with a bandage around her forehead sat huddled on her mother's lap. An elderly man with an oxygen mask slept sitting up. At least, Elliot assumed he was asleep.

_Where is she?_ A quick scan of the room revealed she wasn't there.

"Olivia Benson," he barked at the intake Nurse, who ran a finger down her clipboard.

"Treated and released," she replied without looking up.

"Treated for what?" he demanded. She looked up then, her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Are you a relative, sir?"

"Elliot." Her voice. Thank _God_. He turned and there she was. Her face. Her eyes. Her mouth. Without thinking he moved to her and wrapped his arms around her, tight. Her right arm hugged him back. She was warm, vital, _alive_. He breathed in her scent, palpable even above the sickly antiseptic hospital stench. He pulled back, studied her drawn face.

"You OK?" He looked down then, saw blood. Blood all over the front of her blue T-shirt. A lot of blood. "What the hell happened to you?"

"It's stupid…" She shook her head, smiling a little, but even that little smile made his heart glad. How badly hurt could she be if she was smiling, even a little?

"What? What is it?"

She held up her left hand, heavily swathed in white gauze, thick, like the end of a cotton swab.

"I cut my hand."

He laughed then and she raised one eyebrow, smirking.

"Glad you find my clumsy misfortune so amusing."

"It's not that. _God_, Liv." He grinned, then looked down when he realized he was grinning. "You just…you scared me, that's all. You should have told me on the phone. I thought…"

"What?" She tilted her head.

"Nothin'." He took a deep breath, a cleansing breath. "I'm just glad you're not hurt."

"What do you think this is?" She waved her hand, then winced. "I have 23 stitches under here."

He put his hand on her back then, pushing her lightly towards the exit, toward his car. "What on earth did you do?"

"I feel like an idiot…" She shook her head again, and sighed, giggled.

"You've taken some painkillers, haven't you?" He opened the passenger door, helped her in.

"Oh, you bet." She leaned her head back against the seat, giggled again. "That's why I called, silly. Didn't want to trust some strange cabbie to take me home in this condition."

He started the engine, backed up.

"Uh…you're gonna have to put my seatbelt on." She waved her injured hand again, winced again. "Ohhh…that's _really_ gonna hurt tomorrow…"

Elliot grinned – he really couldn't seem to stop – leaned over her to get the seatbelt. His arm brushed across the front of her T-shirt, bumped against the maddening weight of her breasts. He felt, more than heard, her sharp intake of breath, and then the small buds of her nipples harden. He felt an immediate stiffening response between his legs, he pulled back as if he'd been scalded.

"Elliot—" she whispered, her eyes luminous and slightly glossy in the darkness.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, knowing full-well he hadn't.

"No, it's not –"

"Sorry. Here, I got it." He pulled the belt across and down, snapped it in and moved back. "All right?" The question was directed as much at him as at her.

She nodded. "Thank-you."

He nodded.

They drove to her apartment in silence. He parked and watched her drowsy features, her face turned towards him, eyes closed, lips parted.

"Hey. Sleeping Beauty, we're here." He touched her cheek lightly and she stirred. "C'mon. Let's get you upstairs."

She leaned against him, barely able to support herself and Elliot turned his thoughts off again – why did he have to do this so often when it came to her? – as he became acutely aware of the weight of her, her softness, her skin, hair, the curve of her waist and the flare of her hip. All… _maddening_.

* * *

Inside her apartment. Finally. He lay her on her bed, put her small bottle of painkillers on the bedside table. He pulled the blankets over her. She turned to him.

"You never asked me how I cut my hand," she said.

"Yes, I did. You never answered."

Not that it mattered. After the initial shock of the phone call, followed by the realization that she was, in fact, relatively intact, he hadn't cared _how_ she had cut herself.

"OK, I give. How did you cut your hand?"

"Frozen bagel," she murmured. "Midnight snack."

He grinned -- _stop it_ -- watched her face relax, real sleep loom.

"Elliot," she whispered. He started. "Thanks. For everything."

"Hey," he said. "No problem. You'd do the same for me."

"Don't bet on it," she smiled.

He waited a moment longer, then moved to go.

"Elliot."

"Yeah?"

"Tell Kathy I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Just…tell her. She'll understand." And she was asleep. Elliot lifted her bandaged hand gently, gently, pressed his lips to it. He paused in her doorway to watch her for one more moment, then forced himself to leave.

* * *

He found the scene of the crime as she'd left it in her kitchen; the half-cut bagel, now thawed; the large, serrated-edged knife; blood smeared on the counter, droplets on the floor; a bloodied dishtowel wadded on the counter. He busied himself cleaning everything up, tossing the dishtowel and the bagel. He closed the door quietly behind him and drove home.

It was 4 a.m. when he slid back into the pocket of warmth beside his wife. His eyes closed immediately and he was drowsing when he felt Kathy's arm slide across his bare middle, move up his chest, over his nipple. She pressed herself up against his back and he felt her smooth nakedness. Her hand moved down across his back, feeling his taut muscles, stroked his ass, cupped it.

_What the hell?_ he wondered, feeling himself harden in response to her sensuous touch. _What is she doing?_

Kathy dropped light kisses on his night-cooled skin, her tongue teasing him. When her hands slid back around to stroke his cock, he could control himself no longer. He rolled to her, enveloped her, devoured her mouth with his. She opened herself willingly to him, and it was almost, _almost_, like the days before, before kids, before serious adult life, before _the job_.

Elliot made love to his wife, but by God, he couldn't force Olivia, as usual, completely out of his thoughts. He suckled Kathy's breasts and remembered Olivia's nipples hardening at the brush of his arm. He kissed his wife's lips and imagined Olivia's full, warm mouth moving beneath his. He slid into Kathy, felt her buck under him, but it wasn't Kathy he was holding, fucking.

God help him.

Later, close to dawn, he held his wife, gently stroked her long, light hair. How long had it been since he'd touched her like this? He felt spent, exhausted, like he hadn't slept at all, and he hadn't. He had a long day ahead of him. He assumed Olivia wouldn't be at work and his heart clenched at the thought of not seeing her across the desk, dark head bowed, mouth curved in a slight, sensuous smile.

"Hey," Kathy nudged him. "Almost time for work."

"I know."

"That was…" she nuzzled him.

"I know." He dropped an absent kiss on her head.

A pause.

"So, who were you thinking of?"

"What?" He was still drifting, wondering if Olivia had awoken, wondering if her hand hurt, and how much.

"When we were having sex. Were you thinking of me, or Olivia?"

He was awake now.

"What?"

"You heard me." Kathy's voice was hard, demanding an answer, but still she gently stroked his chest, her head resting on his arm.

"Kath…"

"Were you fucking me or her? Well, either way, I guess I'm the one getting fucked, right?" She rolled away then, sat up, shook her long hair loose.

"Where…where is this coming from?"

She sighed, frustrated with his apparent lack of interest in talking about what was _really_ happening in their marriage. That it didn't matter how intimate they were, how mind-blowing their lovemaking was, if there was a third person in their bed. None of it mattered.

"Forget it. I shouldn't have said anything." She stood, pulled on her robe.

"Kathy, please…" Elliot studied his wife, the woman so intricately entwined in his life for so long, he could hardly remember days before he knew her.

She smiled, dismissing him. "How is Olivia, anyway? She OK?"

Elliot gauged her, wondering what game she was playing. "She cut her hand, pretty deep. To the bone, I think. She'll be on desk duty for awhile."

"Sorry to hear that. I hope she appreciated your driving all that way to get her."

"She did." Elliot rubbed a hand reflectively over her face, pondering his next sentence. Should he? Well, Kathy seemed in the mood for games. "She said to tell you she was sorry.

Kathy smiled then, a wide, angry, bitter, knowing smile.

"Did she?" Kathy looked down at her feet, shook her head. She looked at her husband who was watching her with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Yeah," Elliot continued, his chest tightening with every uttered word. "She said you'd understand."

_Oh, she's good_, thought Kathy. Olivia Benson was nothing if not an unworthy opponent. Sadness overwhelmed her then. Sadness and a sense that even if it wasn't official yet, her marriage was, in a sense, over.

"You can tell her I do."


End file.
